Classic Poem

ODE XXXII

1

Are onlie Poets mad?
Tis an unluckie trade;
Our moderne, and the old Democritus,
Saw all the world, were Lunatickes with us;
And if I (partiall) may
The present Age survay;
I am afraide
Wee are not onlie, or not the most mad.

2

See, to the Politicke;
Is not Hee partly Sicke?
Are his Designes unmixt with Drosse, and Loame?
Has he not some respects, he brought from home?
Are all his Counsells weighd?
His Actions ballanced
Within the right
Skale of cleare Judgment, and not one found light?

3

See all the world unfram'd,
Strangelie disjoynted, lamed;
And Common Men, (who have noe project, to
Advance their Fortunes) run a madding too:
Sneake in their Follies; pyre
At madnes, Misterie;
And we may See
The infection spread to All, in some degree;

4

Not least, where often, most
Sound Faculties they boast.
This saw, of old, much seeing Lucian;
And tis but now the same; for everie Man
Is bound, to his owne heart;
Not blanching any part
Of his owne Sence;
And strives to guild, all Follie with pretence.

5

The learning of the time
Is sicke; and the Sublime
Notions of men are sunke; our Industrye
(Not meerlie simple) has its Subtletye;
All men, have in their waies
Distraction; Pride, and Praise,
Makes the world mad.
The Poet sings, the Polititian's Sad.